Sarasouju: The Sala Tree
by cassowary
Summary: "The proud do not endure; they are like a dream on a spring night. The mighty fall at last; they are as dust before the wind."  -Tale of Heike
1. Home

Author's Note: I don't know as much as I would like about the early days at Shieikan, but I tried to be relatively true to history. Kondou did become master after his adopted father's health began to fail, I believe, but all I know about how Nagakura and Harada entered the picture was from the NHK drama...which I'm addicted to, but doesn't really suit Hakuouki's portrayals of the characters (especially Harada). Anyway, if they came up with Rasestu, I'm free to tweak history a bit more, right?

Shieikan Kenjutsu Dojo.

Kondou Isami, Master.

Okita Souji, Assistant Instructor.

Which was odd, because shouldn't the samurai have the higher rank over the farmer?

He'd been there awhile, heard the rumors. He knew, and had to see it for himself. Not to challenge, but...

A tall young man with piercing green eyes was whaling away at another, with sleek black hair and violet eyes, the dance vicious and almost friendly, to the rhythm of wooden blades cracking. This much he could tell. And the strong-looking man that stood between them, judging the match with just the slightest bit of exasperation, he looked like a man of both the sword and the plow. Where did he belong, really?

That must be Kondou.

So he stood awkwardly (more awkwardly than he was accustomed to, but life was awkward at this point) at the door, wrapped in his dark yukata with a spear across his shoulder and a katana at his side.

He could have sworn Kondou looked past the furious duel of Okita and Hijikata the medicine seller, and gave him a small smile.

One of the other battles on the side was more short-winded, the young one with the long ponytail struck on the shoulder. The victor was obviously a prodigious swordsman.

He also had a mile-long grin and startling blue eyes that immediately picked out the stranger.

"Nagakura Shinpachi," introduced the odd, dreadfully informal, superbly muscled man (who had obviously drawn a real sword before). Harada Sanosuke jerked his head forward in a curt bow, his wound that hadn't quite healed yet twinging uncomfortably.

"Are you any good with a sword?"

_Are you a challenger?_

"Not particularly," Harada replied easily, truthfully, to the questions both explicit and implicit, comfortable with at least _that_ particular shortcoming as the smooth haft of his spear was a pleasant weight in his bandaged hand.

"C'mon, one match. You can't be as bad as Heisuke."

"HEY!"

The young man with the long hair had apparently heard that comment from across the hall and over the din of Hijikata's battle. Nagakura ignored this, though there was a twinkle in his eyes, like a naughty child.

"So, what d'you say? One match?"

"Nah," the spearman shrugged nonchalantly, though it felt like that huge turtle that carried the world in all the Chinese stories he'd been told as a kid was sitting on his shoulders.

"Why not?" Nagakura was actually pouting, now looking the part of a spoiled child who hadn't bothered to grow up.

The epic war in the middle of the dojo had concluded with Okita gleefully making inflammatory comments to the cursing medicine peddler; Kondou with his wise golden eyes laughing along without heat. But they somehow found the tall, red-haired stranger, and there was just that _look_ in them that the heads of the Iyo clan had so conspicuously _lacked_.

And Harada grinned at the pushy, annoying, high-ranking samurai who saw fit to hang out in a poor dojo run by a farmer, frequented by a bad-tempered medicine peddler, filled with the oddest characters he'd had the (mis)fortune to come across...

"Yeah..." he breathed, "Why the hell not?"


	2. Battle

_Thwack. Thwack._

Sweat poured down Shinpachi's sides, soaking his hair and clothes.

A wooden sword was comfortable in his raw, callused hands, the polished grain vibrating against his palms with each strike.

_C'mon...one more..._

_Thwack._

Twist into a counterstrike. Why did he block it? Sanosuke could feel his arms and core straining with exertion, aware of very little else than those smug summer-blue eyes and the heat that was nothing like the searing ocean heat of Matsuyama. But heat of any kind always affected his brain.

_One more...one more..._

The other's movements became more erratic, more primal and untrained. No amount of discipline could restrain that volcanic temper that had burned through the redhead's nonchalant facade.

But Nagakura Shinpachi deep down was cooler than a diamond.

His direct, precise bokken cut right through the explosions of attacks, past the jo staff, touching oh-so-gently between those flaring yellow tiger eyes.

And then he allowed himself to grin like never before.

"Point."

Dimly aware of his lungs screaming and heart pounding, it took Harada Sanosuke a moment to remember himself.

Then he coolly returned the smile.

The match had resembled something like an expert hunter calmly spearing an enraged lion.

Except the hunter himself was a blue-eyed lion and the prey was really a tiger.


	3. Demon

They'd had no money to go out drinking, but it was Harada's idea to gamble for some.

Needless to say, Shinpachi was surprised.

When they finally managed to hit the establishments some time around midnight, the two quickly bid farewell to their senses.

It turned out Harada was also quite fond of dancing.

Eying the the angry red scar across the younger man's belly, Shinpachi decided that either his new friend was a simple man with secrets, or the most complicated person he'd ever had the misfortune to meet.

The next morning, Sanosuke was surprised to wake up in a house (he'd been boarding since he left the barracks) and his head was pounding. He would have laughed if he didn't feel so sick.

Somebody had painted a funny face over his scar.

Shinpachi gleefully burst through the door, already dressed and fully awake, with a bright twinkle in his azure eyes (that weren't bloodshot). He was flushed and sweaty from his routine early morning training, and Sanosuke swore under his breath, pulling his blanket over his head.

Obviously, there was no way in Hell that Nagakura was human.

This happened before either one of them started believing in demons.


	4. Art

Author's Note: The italics at the end is quoted from the opening of the Tale of Heike. And I think I'm falling down the slippery slope of OOC. I'll try to do better next time!

Nagakura Shinpachi may not have seemed so at first, but he was an artist.

In fact, it should have been obvious.

He prided himself for this, as well as many other things—he had every reason in the world to be smug. He was an artist, _he was art_.

Always with an unmatched deliberation, he seemed to cut his way through life with a carefully guarded intellect, cropped hair so uncommon for any samurai that always fell in the perfect messy pattern (and he was a samurai through-and-through, as if to illustrate this irony). It was obvious in his clothes, if you looked enough; the the swirling patterns that wound up the white trim on his coat; the careful balance of deep purple and emerald green, the fascinating necklace he always wore (when nobody else had even considered such an odd accessory).

It was in his swordsmanship, in the way he laughed madly but his eyes were clear as ice when he faced you down, and then you knew that this was even more of an extraordinary man than you had originally thought. It was in the way he had chosen his swings: as well-planned countermeasures against virtually any kind of attack, in addition to the movements that would best build and accentuate his sculpted muscles.

God, what a vain man.

Or so Harada Sanosuke thought.

Some people did not recognize the trademarks and value of art. The painstaking deliberations in each movement, word, and appearance were like pearls before swine, or Sannan's spectacles on a tiger (both pointless _and_ odd). It had been Shinpachi who had first coined that particular phrase.

It was in the details, of course, just small things: unintentionally nice handwriting, clothes bought for comfort that looked good anyway; an easy, relaxed manner with women that was by no means an affect. Harada was a terrible liar and lacked the interest in the subtleties that so delighted his friend.

This probably explained his preference to the spear—aside from those meticulously choreographed dances that Shinpachi had mastered, the goal of the spear was simple and universal.

Poke a big hole in the other guy before he gets you.

Of course, in some things, Nature hadn't equipped the spearman adequately. In such cases, their difference was almost painful for Shinpachi and equally confusing for Sanosuke. For instance, some of the thing the latter was wiling to eat with his sake...or the odd, blank look that filled usually vibrant golden eyes when _The Romance of Five Kingdoms_ was even _mentioned_...

"Hey, Shinpachi, having fun in there?"

The older man was sitting in his room, slowly turning over a book he had borrowed recently.

He looked up, unhurried, to face his uncultured, red-haired friend leaning comfortably against the door frame.

"Do you ever read books?" he asked lightly, trying unsuccessfully to restrain the megawatt grin forming. Sanosuke raised one of his weird eyebrows, somewhat taken aback.

"Nah, not really."

Leaping up, the swordsman grabbed a bandaged arm and yanked his friend ungracefully to the tatami.

"That's gonna change today," he declared in that perfectly imperious tone of his. The bemused spearman only stared.

"_The sound of the Gion Shouja bells echoes the impermanence of all things; the color of the sala flowers reveals the truth that the prosperous must decline..."_

"Ever seen the Gion Festival in Kyoto before?" Sanosuke asked softly, barely above a whisper.

"Nah," his educated friend mirrored, well aware of the irony, but the redhead just smiled.

"Then, we should go, some time."

"Yeah, we should."

That wasn't art, but it was still beautiful.


	5. Dust

Author's note: Some concepts here taken from various snippets of information I've picked up over time that may or may not be consistent with the Hakuouki universe. Apologies if it's a little too melodramatic and biased. I'll try to rein myself in a little more in the future. In the meantime, feel free to tell me what you think.

An image of pride.

He was always proud and dangerous, always changing, always laughing. Or maybe Sanosuke himself was the one who was different and proud and dangerous, water and fire—who could tell?

The blue-eyed samurai had asked him if he was going to Kyoto. To join the Roshigumi. To protect none other than the Shogun. Shinpachi, if he lacked distinctive plans for the future, held rigid ideals for the present. He was almost like a child then, dreaming about swords and politics and the power to keep order in the changing times.

Sanosuke did not understand. Not until Shinpachi, who was already determined to do his part for the country he loved, explained that Kondou and Hijikata and the others were joining the Ronin guard. In that case, there _was_ no choice.

Small-minded, some might say, lacking in his friend's ability to see the big picture or make a moral judgment on the matter. But there was never any debate that Harada Sanosuke had not learned his lesson. It was quite simple, really. Those gates of the Iyo clan castle, where he had wasted a good part of his youth, were not his home. That girl's smile was just a dream (though her touch was bled into memory); that boy who won her heart had merely faded to a pale, fractured reflection of Shinpachi's vibrancy. The roofs and basements and errands of Edo; the dull hammer in his hand—that was nothing more than a sleepwalk. Kondou's heart, Hijikata's soul. Shinpachi's wide ocean eyes (life), and the spear in his hands were the only things as real as the hot, dark blood that once gushed from the deep, angry cut of an uncertain dreamless limbo.

These made him feel more alive than he'd ever been in this numb world.

There were no more blurry panicked shouts somewhere above his bowed head. All the same, his trance had broken.

"I'll go," he told his old friend, surprised again by the blueness in eyes that were supposed to be warm brown.

"_We should go to Gion together next year..."_

_His best friend had said, but didn't mean it. The newly-wed couple would have a child and no time next year, and they all knew it._

_He turned away, because there were no more words, just a simple choice. She had made her decision; she had chosen the better man, and nobody could blame her. Neither wanted to stay any longer._

_He turned away, and she opened her mouth for a second but said nothing, while her husband just looked sad._

_Nothing left but the sunset and the ocean..._

Cautiously, Shinpachi reached out and grasped his friend's shoulder, his touch light at first until it hardened into a vicegrip. He could feel it through the thin white fabric crumpled under his fingers: the warmth, the minute adjustments of powerful hard muscle; underneath everything else, the slow steady pulse of tenacious life.

_The mighty fall at last, they are as dust before the wind._

Their eyes met again, the blue of desert skies and the deep amber of the dying sun, wanting so desperately to fight the melancholy of this realization.

His ideals, his beliefs, his desires:

—Dust.

Shinpachi desperately wanted to get piss-drunk.

But he had to go, so that they could some day hear the Gion bells and make sense of this precious, fleeting dream.


	6. Blue

Author's Note: Blue, the most popular interpretation of the Shinsengumi's uniforms. The other interpretation holds them to have been light yellow, like the color you might paint a baby's room, but most people like blue much better. It's hard to look tough in the shade of baby chicks and all other cute things.

In German, blue also can mean drunkenness. For instance, if you tell somebody _Du bist blau _("you are blue"), you're telling them that you believe they are under the influence of too many spirits.

Fitting for Serizawa Kamo, the erstwhile commander of the Shinsengumi.

To say the least, the new uniform caused quite a stir.

Everybody with the exception of one Kondou Isami on the Shieikan side of the fence seemed displeased, and for good reason.

Shinpachi claimed they were tacky (which was unfortunate, because they were only a few shades lighter than said vain bastard's eyes). Hijikata simply declared them ridiculous.

The others were of the same opinion, but to differing degrees, of course. Sannan said nothing to the larger group, but he had obviously discussed the matter exhaustively with Hijikata for the latter man to settle with such a blunt stance. One look, and Souji's eyes assumed that malicious twinkle when he declared that they would all look like blobs of deluded blue _shit_ on patrol. Heisuke was horrified, to say the least, but they later teased him that it was because the last thing a gawky shrimp like him needed was a screaming _asagiiro _coat to make him look like the biggest loser in Kyoto. Saitoh naturally declined to comment, although he explained (in a long-suffering tone) that he would wear whatever the commanders ordered him to wear without complaint.

Of course, this only led to more, albeit somewhat restrained, teasing.

For Sanosuke's part, he was about as indifferent as Saitoh—he cared little for figurative speech or symbolism or anything else that required endless contemplation for less-than-exciting results. If he had to wear a flashy haori, then so be it: he would wear the damn thing proudly.

It was _Serizawa Kamo_ that he didn't like.

As said before, he lacked interest in the subtle, but even he could understand politics. Therefore, though Kondou himself liked the poetic reference to the Tale of Heike in those haori, the spearman could easily side with Hijikata and Sannan on this particular issue. If Serizawa the Mad Goose Man of the Mito faction had the right to choose the uniform, there was no saying what else he could "decide" for the entire Roshigumi.

And something about Serizawa made Sanosuke nervous.

Serizawa Kamo was a man about Kondou's age, but he looked older, perhaps due to his hard lifestyle. More likely due to his cynicism. He dressed like the richest man on the block (and wasn't he, though the rest of them were all starving dogs), and was a superb swordsman of the Shinto Munen School—Shinpachi's own style, though he often was satisfied to clobber anybody who irked him upside the head with his ever-present heavy iron fan.

Kamo might have named himself after awkward water-fowl, but his graying hair and cold eyes and fearsome, insatiable temper made him much more like to a rabid wolf.

He just gave off a bad vibe that Sanosuke could never even hope to communicate to his logical best friend.

Maybe it was the fact that that poor-mannered kid Ryuunosuke was always sporting bruises from an iron fan a little beyond what he deserved for his impudent behavior. Or maybe it was the way that pretty woman who delivered their uniforms (and probably came to deliver _other_ clandestine products as well)—Oume-san, was it?—left headquarters crying and minutely off-kilter, as if Serizawa had _forced_ upon her much, much more than just a simple payment.

On the other hand, the mostly-reasonable Nagakura Shinpachi had to turn a blind eye to these hints of less-than-stellar conduct for the greater good. Like Hijikata, he understood that the Goose Man could be much more difficult than necessary at times, but Serizawa's coattails were essential for the survival of the Roshigumi as a whole. Though Kondou was charismatic and a safer man to be around, Serizawa was just as talented at manipulating the crowds (if not more), and he, being of high samurai birth, carried a lot more clout in society. He was their only connection to Aizu, and without him, the Roshigumi would die. A simple ultimatum, to say the least.

And Serizawa, for all of his faults, was a dangerous warrior. Shinpachi respected him, as a fellow student of Shinto Munen, as a swordsman, as a leader for his forceful personality. Serizawa could turn the most innocent novice recruitee (though there hadn't been many of those lately) into a depraved, bloodthirsty wolf, following his pack. The man's so-called ideals were a facade, but Shinpachi would nonetheless be an utter _fool_ not to respect him.

On quite a few occasions, Serizawa dragged Shinpachi out drinking with him, and the younger man was ambivalent. On one hand, he liked and respected Serizawa, even more so for being able to out-drink him (Shinpachi was something of a drinking champion in these days). Serizawa had money, and was usually willing to help him get set up for the night as well. The fact that the Wolf in Goose's Clothing smacked his fan against his open palm when convincing an Establishment girl to go with the spike-haired samurai had to be taken with a grain of salt—the girls were there to do their jobs, right?

In fact, the most unpleasant aspect to drinking with Serizawa was not said man's attitude and propensity for thoughtless violence, or the way Niimi watched too sharply with concealed thoughts, but that Sanosuke always refused to join their group.

The redhead cited an inability to relax such company, but there must have been something much more pressing than that if he was willing to forgo good sake and a chance of getting laid for mere _nerves_.

What the hell was wrong—everybody save Saitoh in the Shieikan group seemed to place some irrational fear of Serizawa's behavior above the importance of keeping the Roshigumi together. If any of them stopped to think before getting all hung up on principle, the whole group might be in better shape than its current dysfunctional mess.

It was all very strange, because like Serizawa, Sanosuke was supposed to _have_ no principles.

Always, Serizawa Kamo was an unsolved problem, and unhealed rift in the Roshigumi; a wound that smarted and bled when Shinpachi left his best friend behind on his treks to the pleasure quarters.

But maybe that damned cut scabbed over a bit when they saw in the mornings that neither Shinpachi nor Sanosuke had changed too much in the course of the night.

And for everything else that my be wrong with the controversial attire, at least their new, flashy, screaming blue haori jackets matched.


	7. Ocean

Author's Note: Feel free to tell me if y'all would prefer there be more happenings in following chapters. This has been a tad dry...sorry! This is loosely based on the sumo wrestler incident in Osaka, but may or may not follow Reimeiroku accurately. By the way, if you didn't already know, mentions to the Tani family refers to Tani Sanjuurou and his brothers, Mantaro and Masatake. Sanjuurou not only became the leader of the Shinsengumi's 7th unit, but he also taught spear to Harada Sanosuke. Masatake was also temporarily adopted into the Kondou family (as Kondou Shuuhei), until his brothers' bad behavior caused him to be disowned. Anyway, though they're fascinating and underrated, the history lesson ends here. Please, read on, and feel free to share your opinion!

"_Take all your sensibilities, speak just a little,_

_Your words have enough weight to turn rock to metal."_

—"Tweak Your Nipple" by Faithless

Though he liked to know what was going on, Shinpachi had little patience for the bowing and groveling and other irritating formalities required when courting the higher-ups in the Bakufu.

At that time, Osaka seemed the place to be, with Hijikata and Kondou taking care of the political garbage (Kondou was eager, and as he had been a farmer, he was much less jaded than Shinpachi, for example). Serizawa and his pal Niimi Nishiki were there too, but Serizawa had, if possible, even less patience for the red tape and so-called responsibilities of high society than Shinpachi himself did.

Niimi was, of course, there to manipulate the rest of the group in accordance with his honking quack of a friend's all-too-flighty wishes. He was also there to poison the atmosphere with his shady activities and shifty black eyes, not to mention his altogether _tasteless_ topknot ensemble. Even Serizawa himself agreed that Niimi Nishiki was _quite_ the bastard.

In addition to those of the Mito group, the Shieikan faction naturally brought along their best and brightest, both for protection in unstable times, and to prove their clout to the cynical clan heads. Thus, along with Kondou Isami and Hijikata Toshizou, veteran members—Okita Souji, Saitoh Hajime, Inoue Genzaburou, and of course Nagakura Shinpachi, to name a few—were along for the ride.

Despite the obvious tension of the Shieikan leaders, Shinpachi was determined to make the most of his time in Osaka and his given proximity to the insistent/generous/alcoholic Serizawa Kamo. Shinpachi was always an adventurous person, but he had never been as far south as Osaka before. His travels as a young lad had led him all over northern Honshu, challenging dojos and realizing his true strength and independence after his sheltered (admittedly spoiled) upbringing. But, he was leaving, and Sanosuke, who had been almost distant since Serizawa hijacked everyone's lives, was staying behind in Kyoto, to Shinpachi's surprise.

The night before he left with the others, he'd asked why, maybe to confirm his own suspicions, or just to quell his own guilt—why the hell should he feel guilty over his friend's own choice, dammit?

"Osaka's nice," Sanosuke answered cryptically, with that indeterminate smile of his, the one where you couldn't tell if he was truly happy, or just masking some deep-seated sadness.

He sat there smiling like that, swigging cheap sake, eyes raised to the great stars in an oddly catlike fashion.

"Just nice?" Shinpachi snorted. Sano was anything but eloquent even on the best of days, but this was pathetic, even for him. The other fixed him with a gaze that still carried the warm glow of the sun that had disappeared over the horizon hours ago.

"Yeah, of course. The ocean's nice."

The older man's dark eyebrows were in danger of disappearing under his green hachimaki, and he took the occasion to gulp down his own cup of cheap sake, pulling a face briefly. Water, or even horse piss, would have been more satisfying.

"Anything else?" he asked, again in his skeptical tone, and Sano shot him what was almost a smirk when he looked back.

"Sure," he drawled carelessly, "Send the Tani family my love, if you run into any of those bastards, and think of me if you get to finally drink something decent, for a change."

"You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"Tell yourself, Shinpachi."

In the morning, Sanosuke lived life as normal, though it was a lot quieter in the days that followed. It wasn't as much fun teasing Heisuke by himself, though.

Shinpachi saw no Tani of any variety on this voyage, but he did feel the warmth of the sun on his bare arms and the breeze off the harbors, like a cool whisper of memory through the foggy resides left by Serizawa's nights of wild debauchery.

Still, that _makoto-_sky-ocean lacked the strength to cool the heads of Serizawa and a few sumo wrestlers one night, as a simple squabble about right-of-way or something trivial like that became an all-out brawl. There was no ocean in Souji's suddenly rapacious green eyes as his blade gorged itself on its first blood, but Shinpachi and Saitoh had carved their own red rivers before now. The short-haired samurai was unafraid but uncomfortable, finely balanced between drunken bloodlust and the uncertain calm of the sword in his hand; his honor and soul. Saitoh knew it too, because the two of them had turned their swords, to bruise, injure, break—but not to carry the weight of fools' blood on their swords.

They all swam in an ocean of temper and dark flowing life; all hell breaking loose under a red-hot moon that night, but Shinpachi would not drown because he felt the whisper and the golden glow of sun-fires plunged into the western seas (in his eyes).

And whatever else may have been, Shinpachi would bet on his own life that Serizawa Kamo could not say the same.


	8. Dull

Author's Note: Criticism quite welcome.

"No work and no play makes me a dull boy."

Pigs.

Chickens.

Fish.

The first time Sanosuke killed a chicken was messy.

The first time Sanosuke killed a ronin was messy, although ronin had much more blood than chickens did.

It was different from cutting himself open. He wasn't crouched over, giggling at the sight of his own intestines, hands bleeding numbly when his short sword clattered out of his grip. The man's expression of shock slowly gave way to one of pain and hate, tearing himself from the point of a long spear, struggling to his feet as his insides hung out.

When the spear cut across his throat, nearly severing his seething head, the ronin collapsed.

It was bloodier than even a pig.

Pigs.

Chickens.

Fish.

Taneda Houzou-In and spears seemed out of place. When he was a child, Sanosuke killed animals with a heavy kitchen knife. He cut their throats. He skinned and gutted them. "Cleaning" a fish, it was called. When you gutted a fish, it was a lot cleaner than gutting a man.

His older brothers trained to do the latter at the castle, while little redheaded Sanosuke had to do the dirty work around the house because he was a terrible swordsman, and in Edo, he was little more than a common laborer (he fixed roofs and mucked out the animal pens and did nothing a born samurai _should_ have had to do). Big redheaded Sanosuke did the dirty work around Kyoto, as well, and his brothers, older and younger, were probably still wasting away at the gates of the Iyo Castle.

At least they kept their hands clean.

Nobody told you that spears were much more effective than Mother's kitchen knives for slaughtering _en masse_. If Sanosuke had thought to use a spear when he was going about his everyday chores, he could have been done a lot faster, probably. Instead of having to grab and calm a frightened animal that was much heavier and stronger than himself, he could have just cornered it in its pen and run it through.

So on the streets of Kyoto, Harada Sanosuke, failed samurai extraordinaire of the Iyo Clan, killed pigs, chickens, and fish the most practical and expedient way he now knew.

He speared fish from the sea, and at first this expedience amazed him so much that Hijikata had to physically stop him from butchering a human carcass where it lay and bringing it back to headquarters for dinner.

Later that night, Shinpachi, who had first killed a drunk man when he was younger, but a man nonetheless, told him he that he had to be insane.

Somehow, it wasn't so hard to believe.

It really wasn't so hard.

He'd done it before, and he'd been training to do so all his life.

Shinpachi was the best at everything he did, and he was the best at swords since he was little. And kenjutsu meant killing people.

It was different from a sparring match. There was no judge to call points, to order when to start and stop. It just happened. But Shinpachi had no opposition to playing games; not now, not ever. So even though it wasn't a proper duel or drill, and even though a katana weighed more than a bokken, Shinpachi knew exactly what to do, and he knew he was the best.

He wasn't prepared for the spray of blood.

But, there was nothing more to it. The drunk man lay at his feet, gasping out his last breaths, unable to go any further, while Shinpachi gazed down with inquisitive blue eyes. He hadn't done anything wrong. The man was a fool, not a superior.

The man should have realized when to back down, and Shinpachi was merely protecting himself and his name. He grew up an expert at self-defense, he had used his knowledge in a case that warranted it, and he refused to let himself regret it.

He hated the way the man's breaths rasped and whimpered. That man was a sore loser.

The streets of Kyoto ran red.

And Nagakura Shinpachi of the Matsumae Clan laughed, because it was all a game. He loved adrenaline and sake and women and kenjutsu; all the fine things in life. He loved to have fun and show off to his friends.

Though he knew quite well that husbands and fathers and sons and brothers and friends fell under his stained blade and expert skill, he was a son and a brother, and had brothers and friends and maybe someday, a wife of his own so that he could be a father, as well.

It was a game. Somebody had to win, and he _hated_ losing, probably more than any other man that he killed (and that was why _they_ lost, because they didn't care as much about the game).

When Shinpachi explained this, Sanosuke decided that it was a much better approach than his robotic chores. Those were _boring_ and _depressing_. Games were always more fun than working.

Shinpachi made him smile.

So he, too, learned to kill men as quickly and perfectly as anything else that could be killed. Men fought back much better than pigs, chickens, or fish.

And Harada Sanosuke would be _damned_ if he didn't love a good fight.


	9. Rain

Author's Note: I skipped a lot of material, here. For those of you who didn't know, Hirayama was one of Serizawa's one-eyed henchmen. The details here were taken mostly from Shiba Ryoutarou's novel _Moeyo Ken_, and from the NHK drama _Shinsengumi!_, both of which are worth checking out. I believe Shinpachi was only stabbed by Saitou in Hakuouki, though...what can I say, I tried. "Naga" in Nagakura originally was written with the _kanji_ meaning "long," but either Shinpachi or his father replaced it with "eternity," which is why he was sometimes referred to as "Eikura," though that small detail is hardly relevant here. By no account did Shinpachi approve of the Serizawa assassination.

Hirayama Goro died quickly.

In a heartbeat, in fact. That man would have lasted longer if he had woken up sooner, but it couldn't be helped, and Sanosuke was actually relieved that such a drawn-out, messy affair could have such a simple, protracted ending. In the room over, it sounded as if Hijikata and Souji were having a bit more trouble with Serizawa.

Stepping over the eye-patched head and and nude trunk (the girl had fled earlier, screaming bloody murder), the redhead slid open the door and met his fellows as they stood over a bloody futon and two mangled bodies that were barely recognizable as Serizawa Kamo and Oume. Souji looked exhilarated and a little scared, suddenly childlike with his sword dripping unnoticed; Hijikata was still and silent, watchful, surveying the scene with the barest shadows of distaste and regret; Sannan's head was bowed and he looked tired—was it that he could see his future, even then? Dark speckles had dried on his usually immaculate glasses and pale face.

Wordlessly, the four made their way across the grisly tatami, out to the pouring rain.

At the front gate stood Saitoh, quiet as always, dark midnight hair plastered to his face and dripping on his black kimono.

"I had to stop him," he told Hijikata softly, nodding slightly to a sprawled shape lying in a puddle of black rain in the shadows.

"Did you kill him? You're fucking crazy, Hajime-kun!" Souji was inappropriately excited, or maybe just trying to hide his horror as he crouched over the prone form. The shorter, stoic man ignored Souji, but spoke only to Hijikata.

"It was necessary." There was what could have been discomfort in his voice, "But he will live."

The vice-commander nodded.

"Very well, Saitoh."

Sannan paused as he walked past.

"Thank you, Saitoh-kun."

Sanosuke was barely aware of the twinge in his own belly when he examined Shinpachi, lying in the dark, for himself. The man's chest was heaving with shallow breaths, and there was blood running from his mouth and over his clothes and white hakama, dark liquid from his stomach or vitals. But his eyes were only half-shut as he lay in shock, sparks of hot blue fire under his lashes, even as his wild hair was soaked and muddy, and his right hand still gripped his sword.

_Shinpachi._

But Sanosuke, like Saitoh, was here to do what needed to be done and no less. Ignoring the pain, he straightened up and turned to leave with the others.

He was stopped by Saitoh himself, and he could have easily grown angry at the sapphire eyes that weren't nearly as expressive as those that were like the oceans that swirled with warmth and cool and desert skies, but Saitoh was only doing his job, and Sanosuke knew that he himself would have done the same.

"He could have won," the younger man told him, and the redhead almost smiled.

"I know."

It was so hard to believe that solemn young man was only Heisuke's age, sometimes...

He followed Hijikata into the night beyond, trusting Saitoh and Yamazaki behind, and Shinpachi.

Waking up was painful. Head pounding like the mother of all hangovers, his back sore from lying down, the fight, the feeling of a iron thorn that had been torn out of his belly...

The sun through rice paper windows was too fucking bright, everything was fucking fucked up, and Shinpachi had proven himself the ultimate fool.

Everything was just too confused, and he wanted to sleep, so he could stop thinking about it. Serizawa was a bastard, but he didn't deserve what he got, what could have been prevented. What did loyalty matter if it was all too convoluted to make any sense? Who was a traitor, Serizawa? Hijikata? Saitoh?

Or even himself? It was as if everything he understood about justice and honor were thrown back into his face, like he'd just found out that the people he respected were just the kind of scum he'd been avoiding all along.

But really, Shinpachi just _loathed_ losing.

"Bet you feel like shit," remarked a familiar voice somewhere above him, a soft, slightly raspy voice that sounded much too light for the occasion and one he'd been trying not to think about at the moment.

"Fuck off," Shinpachi groaned, not nearly his graceful self when he had been humiliated and skewered through the belly and found out all his friends were corrupt underhanded bastards.

"Get your head out of your ass." Sanosuke's voice said more sharply, this time, as if reading his thoughts.

Because he felt no desire to honor another lying bastard with his full attention just yet, Shinpachi took his time opening his eyes until he was looking up at his erstwhile best friend's pale, angular face gazing down on him, surprised to see dark circles under glaring bloodshot amber eyes and shaggy dark red hair untied and falling in disarray. It looked like he could have been drinking, but there was no alcohol in this damned place and there was no whiff of the spoils of Harada's charm at the Establishments.

It looked, for all the evidence, that the spearman had stayed up to watch him all night and into the day.

Well, shit.

It still did nothing to appease Shinpachi's anger, however.

"Who are _you_ to talk? The whole lot of you are backstabbing psychopaths, aren't you? I didn't see anyone _else_ trying to stop an honorable man from getting assassinated by a bunch of cowards, and look what I get—"

"Shinpachi, just shut up."

Funny how the injured man's indignant tirade still ceased at the request, Sanosuke thought. Maybe it was because the part of Shinpachi that had never grown up was still confused, still needed assurance and direction, but it wasn't his place or interest to make assumptions. What mattered was that Shinpachi did, indeed, shut up.

Speaking was difficult. Kondou had sworn him to secrecy (not even Shinpachi knew who exactly had been involved, though he could guess), and he just wanted to finally sleep, not try to reason with an angry warrior on his sickbed. But this was his duty, part of the debt he owed the men of the Shieikan; especially that which he owed to Shinpachi.

"I can't speak for any of the others," he began quietly, "but I promised myself that I would follow Kondou-san and Hijikata anywhere. And anybody I fought along the way, well, it wouldn't be a personal thing." there was sadness in his laugh.

"I don't want to live with regrets."

Neither one of them did.

It was so simple, _too_ simple. But it was probably the most he would ever hear from his maybe-friend, maybe-enemy if things kept going this way. So Shinpachi did not laugh back in a mocking way, like he wanted to. Though he definitely had his own regrets, right now.

"And what if the people you follow are the wrong ones? What if you _kill_ the people you should be fighting _for_?" he demanded, fixing the other with a steely glare.

Sanosuke merely shrugged.

"I guess I'd have to figure _that_ part out whenever it came around, wouldn't I?"

There was a long, awkward silence as Shinpachi continued to glare at the redhead, whose indifferent expression slowly gave way to one of irritation, breaking the pause suddenly with a frustrated sigh.

"Look, I didn't ask to be your nursemaid and argue with you about the meaning of life," he snapped. "Everybody's worried about you, so they picked me to watch you because I have the most experience with stomach aches."

Here, the other snorted at the gross understatement, gritting his teeth at the sudden stab of pain.

"What if you all decide to finish me off while I'm lying here?" he snarled, still confused, still angry, because he liked to be on top of the fucking world, not lying in a metaphorical ditch, trying to muddle out some purpose or whatever.

The spear-wielder's face darkened.

"That's _your _problem then, but try to solve all the mysteries of the universe while you can still lie around. If you're still complaining when you're better, then I'll fight you myself so you can't drag everyone else through your shit."

And this time, he couldn't help it. He really couldn't. Despite the sensation of his gut ripped in two, despite his headache and everything else that was currently wrong in the world, Shinpachi laughed, curling up on his futon, hands clenching over his belly, tasting blood in his throat as tears of mirth or pain forced their way into his eyes.

"God...that's rich," he choked, feeling sick and angry and so close to something like plain happiness, "You know I'd win."

Red eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah...every single fucking time..."

To his relief Sanosuke said nothing more, but just watched quietly as Shinpachi writhed on his futon trying to get a grip on himself, trying even now to decide which of them was more of a child or idiot or just blind; who was right, who was wrong. His laughter started to die when his tongue was coated in his own blood and it just hurt too much to continue.

"I'm completely serious," the injured man rasped, glaring up with the ghost of a smile and hard blue eyes that were something akin to ice coated in deep hot fires, stars, maybe?

"And so am I," Sanosuke answered, his face finally softening into a sad, gentle smile.

"We can fight this out when you're better. You should probably hold off on eating, but don't listen to a word Yukimura-sensei says about sake. I've found that drinking a lot of it helps kill infection."

"You made that up."

"No way, it's true."

They immediately sobered up again.

The mention of drinking triggered something painful, maybe Serizawa's death, maybe the way that since Serizawa, they hadn't drank away the long nights together as much as they used to. There was still that gaping rift between them that still had yet to scar over like Sanosuke's old wound under the southern sun, or even begin to heal like Shinpachi's new one in pouring rain.

The two of them drifted off in the silence and their own exhaustion.

Waking up the second time was even worse, because Shinpachi now not only had strained his injury earlier, but he also hadn't found any answers. As a result, the agony and frustration apparently doubled or tripled upon his return to consciousness, immobilized and stuck in a house of murderers. He glared at the ceiling, wishing that he had never even bothered coming to Kyoto, or that he could have just been satisfied with a boring life as a rich samurai bastard and a Nagakura with the "naga" part meaning "long," not "eternity."

Oh, wouldn't everything have been much simpler then?

Life wouldn't have led him to a futon in shitty Mibu Village, recovering from being stabbed in the belly by one of his allies, left to lie there and stew in his own resentment and confusion.

It might have been worth staying in Edo and being fawned over by idiot civilians who just wanted his favor or protection and samurai who wanted his rank, like the bloodsucking ticks that they were.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of red.

Harada Sanosuke was sprawled out on the tatami, his long hair matted all over his face and obviously fast asleep. The younger man must have finally dozed off, though he currently looked more comatose than anything.

If Shinpachi had stayed behind in Edo, he would have given up the only people who treated him like a normal person, without any sniveling affects or ulterior motives.

He also would have let go of the best friend he could ever have.

He still didn't have his answers, but he had beliefs, he had strength in himself and his convictions, and he had time to figure things out.

There was rain, but wounds took time to heal, after all.


	10. Quiet

Author's note: I'm baaaack!

Nothing really happened, I just haven't had a lot of quality time to spend with the keyboard and word processor, et. al.

So, sorry for party rocking, and I just can't seem to let go of Serizawa Kamo.

Questions, comments, and concerns quite welcome, if you find the time!

They had chosen him for his ability to keep quiet.

They could have chosen Saitoh, of course, but Sanosuke supposed he was the lucky one because his loyalties were obvious...he'd made clear from day one that he barely gave a rat's ass about Serizawa.

And he kept secrets just as well (except maybe his own, because he didn't have any to speak of).

He knew now, after the fact, that as he watched and waited in the rain, Shinpachi and Saitoh themselves were at each other's throats.

Had he known, he did not trouble himself with wondering what he would have done. _That_ fight had already happened and essentially resolved without his involvement—he trusted the two, as did Kondou and Hijikata, but that was irrelevant at this point.

The night was not quiet; not really.

Tree branches creaked wetly around the house in the pouring rain, water dripping steadily from the eaves. Sanosuke could not hear the others, but knew they must be speaking in the shadows of the surrounding trees; at the gate, two fabulous swordsmen met steel on steel, splashing in the shallow puddles and hissing out sharp breath—damn it, Shinpachi.

Tonight, it seemed that none of the original Shieikan members would look upon the party earlier with any fondness. The Mito side, some of them might not be able to look back at all.

The spear-wielder waited on the veranda, under the dripping roof, careful not to make a sound under his cloak of darkness despite the drop of rainwater that fell perpetually from a leak, soaking the same spot on his white-clad shoulder; he watched the golden lantern-glow from the window, and listened intently.

Too old and...experienced to blush, Sanosuke was not surprised when the Roshigumi's doomed leader made love roughly to his concubine, making no compliments or endearments, but rather biting out sharp commands in his gravelly voice.

It was almost painful to hear.

This moment shared between the two, it would end, and Hijikata would likely order Oume's death as well. Their future would end as soon as Sanosuke gave the signal: Serizawa would die, and harsh as that man was, Oume loved him, that much was clear. She was a beautiful woman, and Sanosuke had heard almost a lifetime of her secret passions and desires in a few minutes hiding in the night, too much.

Oume would die, too.

There was no other way. But she adored the man, violent and unstable as he was.

At the time, Sanosuke was relieved to hear the cries subsiding to labored breath, the exhausted fumbling to extinguish the light.

The Oume could be faceless once again as she slept by her lover's side.

This had to be what Shinpachi meant about his beloved passage of impermanence: a woman that Sanosuke had only known by name and reputation before this night was actually a woman with a personality and human desires; a woman in love.

As soon as things quieted down and the room was completely dark, the red-haired man gave his signal by throwing a small stone, and he was quickly joined by the other three, Hijikata, Souji, and Sannan.

"Kill them as quickly as possible. Do not leave witnesses," Hijikata whispered tersely, tense under the cold mask he had assumed.

He was nervous.

They slipped noiselessly into the house.

Oume did not last the night; Serizawa himself made sure of that.

Even now, a day (an age) later, as he sat up by Shinpachi's side and watched his sleeping face, Sanosuke had little desire to torture himself by trying to make sense of this. What was done, was done. Serizawa and Oume were gone, but despite this, Harada Sanosuke was content to keep his silence once again.


	11. Warrior

Author's Note: You see the cover? I'm not sure if I want to keep it, but if you like things of that type, you might want to check out my Deviantart (see profile for details). There's a lot of poorly-researched pseudo-history in this one, and I know I need to move the story along, but I've been...heavily influenced...by some Harry Potter fanfics, so I almost felt obligated to include this one.

Also, do tell: House or Dubstep?

Lying in bed for two days was irritatingly stressful and gave Shinpachi a lot of time to think. It wasn't that he didn't make a habit of using his brain regularly, of course—in fact, Shinpachi prided himself on his thoughtfulness, but this time round, there were a lot of things he dredged up from his memories that he hadn't particularly cared much for before.

When he was a child, Nagakura Shinpachi, also affectionately nicknamed "Eikichi" at the time, took reading and writing lessons from a prickly tutor, sword lessons at one of the top training dojo around, and lived as his parents' only son (their only child, as well).

He could admit he was pretty lucky.

But still not satisfied with his comfortable life.

His parents adored him—the only time he could really recall his father actually getting _angry_ at him was when he cut off his topknot (the damn thing just didn't look good on him, anyway) and declared that he was leaving the family service. In retrospect, it might have been a little selfish to leave his doting father alone to have to explain to the Matsumae Clan that they had just essentially lost a valuable (and expensive) asset in Edo. Though the Matsumae Clan was very large and powerful on Ezo, they had few liaisons in other parts of the country.

Had Shinpachi stayed and inherited his father's position, he would have been virtually indispensable to his clan.

The merchant kids he grew up near hated him. He knew this because he'd heard them talking about him, and he'd fought them just as well with his fists instead of his wooden sword. Because samurai had swords and merchants didn't, and he wanted there to be no dispute as to who the winner really was.

"_Samurai always take whatever they want."_

"_Yeah, but they still don't do shit."_

"_Only shit to us, yeah?"_

"_Ha ha ha, they're like, paid to be thieves."_

Real _bushi_ did not sit around like lazy bastards when the country was on the verge of falling apart. The arrival of Commodore Perry's Black Ships in 1853 shook Shinpachi up, even though he couldn't quite grasp the scale of the problem or its implications at the time. Real _bushi_ fought always, if not for a clan or lord, then for their beliefs.

So at age eighteen, Nagakura Shinpachi changed the _kanji _of his family name and left his comfortable life and loving parents and dedicated himself to his swordsmanship, determined to live hard, strong, and if need be, _fast_.

And years later, lying in a separate room in the Yagi House on an old futon, staring up at the morning light from the paper windows, the renegade samurai felt a small glow of pride in his heart that at least he had remained true to himself amid the whirl of chaos and resisted the nagging temptation to return to Edo and take up his father's safe mantle once again.

The people here, from Shieikan, living poor in Kyoto and fighting not only for the country but for their lives as they struggled to make ends meet. Even if they disagreed at times, they had all been through hell together already. Shinpachi could not turn his back on that, his true home. Even though he had an idea that his friends—_brothers—_had something to do with Serizawa's death and the fact that they were even lying about it (Heisuke told him that the assassins were some ronin that they couldn't catch), there was already too much there to give up.

He had never met other true fighters before.

Speaking of which, there was a soft sound off to his left, and a very familiar shadow against the window entered his range of vision.

"About time to get off your lazy ass, you've been lying around too much, while the rest of us are busting our balls on patrol all day" Sanosuke yawned, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.

Slowly, Shinpachi sat up on his own, feeling the dull ache in right side, and he allowed a smirk to unfurl.

"Not that I really miss patrol, but I've been thinking the same thing. If I keep going this way, all my muscles are gonna turn to flab." The swordsman hated missing a workout over pretty much anything else. There wasn't really that much that Shinpachi hated besides missing workouts and hypocrisy.

"Too late for that," Sanosuke jabbed coolly, brushing his long red hair out of his eyes with one hand.

"Come on, let's see how you're doing, here."

Taking Shinpachi by surprise, the younger man pushed back his yukata sleeves and proceeded to pull his friend's own sleeping yukata off his shoulders to examine his torso.

"Bit forward of you, huh? Maybe I wouldn't mind so much if you got some really freaking hot woman to jump me like that," Shinpachi joked as his best friend unwound the bandages on his tanned stomach.

"Keep dreaming, Shinpachi."

The redhead was actually grinning when he examined the wound. It was a deep vertical cut, short and thin, but it had already scabbed over and begun to close. Saitoh's blade had not actually pierced the abdominal wall, but it had managed to puncture a vein bulging by the short-haired samurai's obliques, which meant it bled like hell for quite a while.

"That Saitoh, you can't give him nearly enough credit," Sanosuke declared, awestruck. The left-handed swordsman probably could have avoided the vein, too, if Shinpachi hadn't been wearing his shirt during the fight.

"I'd prefer to think it was my rock-hard muscles that stopped the blow...but sure, okay, Saitoh's all right," Shinpachi groused, rewinding the bandages and pulling his yukata back up. Saitoh was more than all right; he could still recall those dark, dark blue eyes blazing into his in the final strike amid the rain. Even Shinpachi had felt some fear, then.

"Yeah, Shinpachi. Of course. But you still won't ever have a scar like mine."

The older man raised one dark brow.

"Most sane people don't want one like yours, fun as it is to paint faces on."

Sanosuke mirrored the expression.

"Really? Because I think it only adds to my mystique and popularity with the ladies. You might do better with one, yourself."

Quickly, Shinpachi bared his chest and belly again.

"That was low, Sano. But honestly, how is _this_ something the ladies wouldn't die for?"

As he flexed and struck a pose, his friend gave a mocking smile and bared his own (surprisingly unwrapped) torso.

"Easy. They have _this_."

They were both fully dressed in their day clothes and walking along the _engawa_ to the main hall when Shinpachi remembered something else, and as if they shared a mind, Sanosuke stopped and looked sideways at the injured man quizically.

Shinpachi cleared his throat, wincing as his abdominal muscles twinged unpleasantly.

"Well, you were always there when I woke up..." he started, feeling kind of awkward to say such a thing.

The red-haired man nodded shortly, impassive.

"You're welcome."

"Hey Sano, were you..._worried_ about me?"

The other was already walking away, but Shinpachi could hear the smile in his voice.

"If you don't hurry up already, I'm gonna give _you_ something to worry about."

It really went without saying.


	12. Brother

Author's Note: If you have time, you should check out "Gion Shoja" on Youtube. The first video that comes up should be the opening of the Tale of Heike. It's kind of long, but it's very intense and beautifully done.

Hope you have the patience for a long, sappy chapter! Feel free to tell me what you think!

Souji always let Saitoh Hajime walk on his left, as did Toshizou.

This detail was something that Sannan Keisuke always noted with interest.

The sign of respect that went with it, and the practicality—was that how _bushi_ should be? Souji was a deeper person than one would think. This was true for most of them, the advisor observed, glancing around the room. To his right, Kondou was gazing back at him intently, which was unusual.

Kondou Isami was a fair-minded man, as things went, and rightly so. Perhaps it was self-defeating to feel this way, but Sannan actually liked the Bureau Chief of the Shinsengumi best for this. Most samurai would have shown preference for other samurai (Sannan himself), but the ex-kendo instructor by no means was a politician. He stuck to his best friend, Toshizou, and his honorary little brother, Souji, and the fact that Kondou preferred the other two over the _Hokushin Itto_ practitioner was indeed the very basis of the relationship (even _friendship_, maybe) between Kondou and Sannan.

And Kondou was half-smiling, in a way that showed that he did not want to ruin the generally light atmosphere but there was something important on his mind.

So Sannan frowned, though he had a bit of a smile in his heart for the way his leader was so genuine and awkward at times...he frowned because he wondered why Kondou was not telling Toshizou, his closer friend, first.

The _Tennen Rishin _teacher did not speak immediately, but turned his head away slightly, not to Toshizou, who was drinking tea on his other side, but slightly over to _that _corner that was usually so loud.

"Could you speak to Heisuke for me?" the golden-eyed man said at last, quieter and less bright than he mostly spoke.

"I could."

Then Kondou chuckled, because this was Sannan, carefully neutral, hidden behind his spectacles and the dark hair hanging across one cheek. He was a master at finding common ground, at seeming gentle (unlike Toshizou, who was more predictable, in a way). His advisor and friend was a deadly swordsman with strength hidden behind his dark clothes and quiet manners, a reader of people and though he spoke in riddles, he would keep his silence rather than speak an untruth.

Kondou Isami had pride, but was a humble man who knew he needed Toshi to drive people, to force through red tape and preconceptions like a bull; Sannan was there to make peace and maintain the group's balance as they charged their way up the proverbial ladder.

"I knew you would see this," he told the quiet man warmly, as the other smiled into the cup of tea he had just raised to his mouth.

"It's nothing," Sannan answered humbly, "It would be best, if not for any other reason, then to keep up morale."

Kondou nodded quickly, but his words were sincere: "Thank you."

"Thank you, Kondou-san."

Though Sannan Keisuke had left with the others to fight for his beliefs and protect the Shogun, a part of him still had warmed up; he learned to care deeply for the others, as well. They were truly people worth all of their troubles.

Their eating ritual had begun quickly, but had evolved over time to the pointlessly complicated mess that it had become now. In fact, it was likely the reason their peers thought of when coming up with the moniker for their collective group, the "Baka Trio."

Its saving grace was that it was practiced and flawless as clockwork or Kabuki.

And this time round, one of the actors was not participating as should.

As soon as breakfast was served, one Nagakura Shinpachi (forgetting that Souji had cooked that day) proceeded to gleefully seize Heisuke's slice of mackerel and swallow it almost whole.

"God, that was disgusting," he said loudly for added effect as Sanosuke's eyebrows shot up.

"You don't need to do that, Shinpat-san," Heisuke said sullenly between the two older men, making his halfhearted grab for his stolen food only too late.

"Heisuke's right, Nagakura-san," Souji called across the room, smiling nastily as only Okita Souji could do with his jade-colored eyes narrowed in mirth despite to the bald-faced insult to his cooking.

"In fact, didn't anyone ever teach you 'if you don't like it, don't eat it?'...Or maybe, nobody ever thought you'd come across food you didn't like."

"That's not true!" the blue-eyed man protested. "Some of the things—"

"Shinpachi here gets pickier with every drink," Sanosuke overrode his friend's beginnings of a rant with a laugh before said swordsman began insulting everything he could remember of his local cuisine.

Saitoh sighed softly from his place between Genzaburou and Hijikata.

"Now Saitoh, on the other hand..."

"Hajime-kun eats whatever's put in front of him, no complaints!"

"Or _questions_," Shinpachi added brightly. "Do you think he'd like the kind of things Sano buys?"

While the redhead gave a mock death-glare, Saitoh tilted his head slightly and fixed his fellow with serious deep blue eyes.

"I trust Sanosuke," he declared solemnly. "Although he may not display the soundest of judgment when purchasing groceries, he has lived on Matsuyama food and is still healthy. If it came to it, I would be willing to do the same."

"It's not bad at all, Saitoh...and at least you would _try_ it," Sanosuke responded with a grin.

"And so there you go, Nagakura-san—Hajime-kun is less picky even than _you_." Souji concluded.

"I have high standards." Shinpachi mock-pouted. Hijikata put down his chopsticks and straightened up on his cushion at that time.

"Will you all just _shut up_ now?" he demanded irritably. Fearless, Souji smiled right at him.

"We'd LOVE to, Hijikata-san," he practically shouted.

"You're hopeless, all of you...maybe not Saitoh, but the rest of you..."

As that segment of the morning comedy routine quieted down in respect for their vice-commander's wishes, Shinpachi and Sanosuke returned to their seats where Heisuke had remained looking down at the remains of his breakfast with a troubled face.

The two others exchanged worried glances: Shinpachi would steal Heisuke's food, but it all equaled out in the end, because Sanosuke let Heisuke "steal" his own food, and Shinpachi was even willing to share with Sanosuke.

But this time, the younger man hadn't attempted to rob anybody, and hadn't laughed at (let alone joined in) any of their antics.

So Shinpachi put his arm around Heisuke's neck and shook him around a bit, and Sanosuke reached over and mussed his thick, unruly bangs a bit roughly.

"So, what's wrong there, Heisuke?" the spearman inquired in a tone that didn't give much space for negotiation, amber eyes focused sharply on their...vertically challenged pal.

"Nothing, Sano-san."

"Oh?" his muscular captor interjected, squeezing him a little tighter with once impressive bicep.

"Because you know you'll get even tinier if you don't eat. And your hair'll fall out if you tell lies." At that, Shinpachi tugged his long ponytail none too softly, but not in any way that would cause anything more than vague annoyance.

"Get off me, Shinpat-san. I'm NOT lying," he protested with a little too much resentment in his voice for either of them to believe him.

"Then tell the truth, shrimp," Shinpachi retorted sharply, though he still didn't mean any real harm by it.

But Heisuke only pushed him off and stood up, picking up his rice bowl and chopsticks.

"Geez, you guys. Nothings wrong. I'm gonna sit by Souji now."

He was true to his word, but Souji had the decency not to say anything _too_ inflammatory, it seemed.

Watching the third member of their trio across the room, Shinpachi turned to his best friend.

"What the hell is his deal?"

The spear-wielder looked back and shook his head slowly.

"He's not a kid."

"He looks and acts like one."

Sanosuke shrugged at this.

"He's a man...but he still has a lot of growing still to do."

Sannan pulled Heisuke away from the others a little after breakfast, out to the yard. He did not miss the way Nagakura and Harada exchanged glances when Heisuke had turned away. Heisuke himself was nervous—he liked and respected Sannan as a fellow swordsman of their school, and had known him for a long time now, but something about Sannan made him kind of uncomfortable, still. He could never tell what the older man was thinking, or what he would do, and just seemed kind of _detached_, as if everyday life was of no concern to him, as if he were ready to die any day, or something.

His dark eyes were sharp behind his spectacles and Heisuke could see his own tiny reflection in each glass.

"We have noticed that you haven't quite been yourself lately, Toudou-kun," Sannan stated softly rather than questioned. Sannan was a gentle but irresistible force, like water wearing away at stone for years upon years, and a shiver ran through the young man's body as he gave a short, shaky laugh.

"It's really nothing, Sannan-san. Sorry to worry all of you," he tried to brush it off, feeling a weird mixture of relief that Kondou and Sannan had noticed, and resentment that it wasn't Shinpachi saying this to him. But if it was, what would he even say?

"It's not just the leaders, I think," rebutted Sannan, still in that soft voice of his.

"Your friends, Nagakura-kun and Harada-kun are very concerned, too."

Face heating, Heisuke scrubbed the back of his head and forced another small grin. God, he was confused now, and Sannan would never miss _this_.

True to Heisuke's analysis, Sannan took a step closer and his voice went a notch softer.

"This is about them, isn't it? Toudou-kun?"

"Um...it's kind of embarrassing, but I...guess so..." He never could really lie well, especially to Sannan. And he respected Sannan and the others too much to lie. They were his true family, his _home_, and he would never turn his back on them, even if they left him behind...

Sannan said nothing, but his lips turned up in a sphinx-smile, silently urging him to go on.

And so, he did. Sannan was scary sometimes, but he kept secrets so well, he probably had millions of secrets floating around his mechanical mind, filed away in meticulous little stacks. If anyone would never tell, it would be him.

"It's kind of stupid, and I don't really know how to say it," he began shyly, "but it kinda seems like Shinpat-san, like, I don't know..."

Sannan watched the young man with still a lot of child left in him trail off into silence.

But he understood just as well.

"Nagakura-kun has seemed closer to Harada-kun, and you don't know where you stand now?"

"...How did you know, Sannan-san?"

Those aqua eyes grew big with surprise, and Sannan smiled gently back.

He could see it now—Nagakura had always been like an older brother, a protector, to Heisuke, who had an indifferent mother and a monetary pension in lieu of a father. Of course it would hurt, if it seemed like Nagakura suddenly favored another person...Heisuke was actually a bit _jealous_ of Harada, the object of his surrogate brother's attention. The situation was almost like the reverse of his own.

Yes, Heisuke was living with the realization that he _wasn't _Shinpachi's best friend, he could run along with Shinpachi but he couldn't read his mind. Because the two of them went about life at a sprint; they were Edo boys and loved parties and fights and a wild, vibrant lifestyle, but Sanosuke took things slower even as he ran with the Edo wolves. He was just as popular and charismatic without trying, like an eagle drifting lazily on the high winds (without direction, but always getting there anyways) while he ran and ran and was reeling and panting whenever he got to stop.

And it hurt a lot, sometimes.

"Did Kondou-san ask you to talk to me?" He asked the Sendai native.

"Yes."

"So you didn't—?"

Sannan's hand was on his shoulder, lightly, but there. This in itself was surprising enough as the other cut him off.

"Nagakura-kun still cares deeply about you, it's clear to see. And though you are not Harada-kun, he will never be you—he can't replace you."

"How do you know, Sannan-san?" Heisuke asked again. "Do you think he's not just sick of me or something?"

"I know this," the other answered calmly. "You should, too. If you ever need to, I will listen to you."

"But—"

Sannan stopped him again with an almost steely look in his brown eyes.

"There will be repercussions if you are late for your patrol."

Heisuke gasped.

"Oh, geez."

Watching him dash off, ponytail swinging wildly, to grab his uniform and join his soldiers and Saitoh, who already stood waiting for him, Sannan finally turned back to the hall where Kondou and the others were holding conference.

Things would be just fine.


End file.
